PS 

3 soil 

Km 







^i:-x:;:=^^ 



'i^^':;^-' 



RECLAI M ED 



BY 

R. M. E. 



CHICAGO 

BERT L. WHITE COMPANY 

1921 






Copyright, 1921 
Rachel M. Erwin 



5EP 19 1921 



©CI.A624430 



^^^ 



To 
C. R. E. 
R. C. E. 

and 
C. W. E. 



CONTENTS 



RECLAIMED 11 

PINE KNOT 20 

AN INNESS LANDSCAPE 25 

THE SONG SHE SINGS 26 

THE MIDNIGHT HOURS 31 

ALOHA ON 34 

YOUR ROSES 35 

HE AND I 39 

JANIE 41 

YOUTH AND AGE 45 

THEY 46 



REC LAI MED 



RECLAIMED 

Kate 
"Slow up a bit — this place must be the one — 
*0n the hard road/ they said, *a trifle more 
Than four miles from the town/ Here's the 
white fence." 

John 
"Is it worth while? The rain is blinding, Kate; 
The air is stifling and my glasses blur. 
IVe lost my longing to possess a grove; 
It's only sand, and most of that I have 
Already in my two low shoes. Let's go. 
Another day will do as well — and look! 
'POSTED NO TRESPASSING' is on the gate." 

Kate 
"Don't be a quitter, John. What's a light 

shower! 
Our clothes are old; the sand is clean — besides 
We're not just trespassers; we're buyers if 
'Tis all they claim it is and cheap enough." 

John 
"All right; I'll go with you if you insist; 
But only to the house, not one step more. 
I have the key; we'll take a look inside." 



11 



12 RECLAIMED 

Kate 
"Do come with me just to that highest point. 
You see that sagging woodshed, don't you, John, 
So interfering with the charming view 
Of sky and lake and Hve-oak trees beyond? 
When this is ours we'll clear that out and build — " 

John 
"Kate, not so fast — it may not be the place 
And if it is the price no doubt's too high 
For our lean purse. That sugar-cane is hideous 
Growing in patches where 'twas once a field; 
Some careless workman too has cut that palm — 
'Twould take ten years — though if this place were 

mine 
I'd knock that woodshed down right now, and see 
The lake beyond — for lake there is — 
I get a glimpse of it between the trees 
Now that the rain is letting up a bit." 

Kate 
**We'll have a woodshed, John, if nothing else — 
Though not in just the place where that one is — 
Full to the roof with pungent great pine logs 
To blaze for us when evenings send us in 
Beside our fire, to read and rest and dream 
And to watch the moon behind the swaying moss 
(Our Arthur Rackham pictures, window-framed). 
You know the Bible says to covet not 
The servant of our neighbor, nor his ox 



RECLAIMED 13 

Nor aught within his gates — but his woodpile, 

John, 
It doesn't hinder me from wanting that. 
I never see a woodpile, when we two 
Are driving through small towns or farming lands, 
That I don't wish it mine. It speaks so much 
Of comfort, warmed fingertips, of cheer 
For frosty nights and lonely, leaden days.'^ 

John 
"I'm not saying that we will, but if we do 
Decide to buy this old neglected place 
We'll have a lean-to on the low, gray barn 
For tools and gas and oil and such as that; 
We'll keep our bags of fertilizer there. 
It surely has good lines. The floor is gone; 
Partitions must come down, but one week's work 
Will change it to a generous garage — 
Not too near the house, yet near enough, — " 

Kate 
"Across the roof we'll fling a flaming vine — 
Bignonia vine; it grows so fast down here; 
And then we'll have our window-casings match 
The color of the trumpets — orange-red; 
Just a narrow line of staining near the panes; 
The same tone as the fruit upon the trees. 
Oh, can't you see it all as I do, John: 
The low and sloping porch so near the ground — 
And kiddies, John, kicking their chubby legs 



14 RECLAIMED 

And munching cookies, sitting at this end 
Or swinging in the shade of that near tree? 
It's a peach tree, John, I wonder how it came 
To be so near the kumquots and the hmes. 
The leaves are tight green buds but blossoms 

pink 
Are thick upon its graceful little limbs. 
Peaches are on it too — green fuzzy things 
For all the world like pussy willows, John.'* 

John 
"You're looking far ahead, it seems to me, 
Seeing chubby legs and cookies and a swing 
When our young John is only twenty-one. 
Hand me that key: you women never can 
Unlock a door, or read a Blue Book straight 
Or look up trains or understand a map — 
Someone has tampered with the queer old lock! 
The key won't turn; the lock goes round and 
round." 

Kate 
"A tramp, a man tramp too it must have been 
Who tried and couldn't turn the rusty key — 
Two of you infallibles, you see, 
Have failed to do a thing you bragged about. 
I grant you that we women are not keen 
At locks and keys, but in the present stage 
Of your evolving — you who know so much 
Or think you know it, which is much the same — 



RECLAIMED 15 

You cannot do without us, not quite yet, 

Even though there are some things we'll never 

learn. 
* Where ignorance is bliss — ' what are these words 
On this old yellow card tied to the key? 
A woman's calling card — whose was it, think? 
The writing pointed, prim; the letters close; 
Not the blind scrawl our schoolgirls practice now: 
'KEY TO BENNIE'S HOUSE'— that's what it 

says. 
Surely his mother must have written this. 
Had he a wife and children — help me up 
On this big orange-crate and let me see. 

The curtain's fallen 'cross the window pane. 
*Mud-dobbers' nests are thick on all the walls. 
In this front room are tables and a chair, 
An old oak sideboard — such a funny one, 
A dusty, bulging mattress — and Bennie was 
A father, John, for I can see a doll 
And a baby's shoe. Where is that baby now — 
Did the young wife die and leave this pleasant 

spot — 
Did she leave her little one and her sweet home 
(For sweet it may have been when it was new — 
Her first real home perhaps) and Bennie — do 
You see him old, neglected, sad and bent 
Or proud and prosperous, happy and content? 



16 RECLAIMED 

His name I think you'll find will always cling. 
We'll say, when clouds and snow are in the north 
And we are longing for the sunny south: 
*How nice 'twill be when we can take the train 
And go back to our Bennie's House again!' " 

John 
"Come, Kate, these sand-burs sting. Beneath 

the house 
A rattle-snake, perhaps, is coiled to strike. 
The avocado pear trees on the shore 
Are dead from frost, the beggar-weed too thick, 
And pumpkin-bugs have sucked the fruit we pick. 
There's rust on this young tree, and too much 

lime 
Has frenched the leaves; it can't be plowed till 

June 
And June's too hot for a white man to be here. 
Is it worth while — all this — for just us two 
The three short months we stay down south each 

year?" 

Kate 
"Is anything worth while, then, that we can't 
Have every day, for all time for our own ? 
We do not always lose things just because 
We cannot touch them with our reaching hands 
And see them with our all-too-eager eyes. 
Mere nearness is not dearness — you know that— 
Nor can miles divide us ever from our own. 



RECLAIMED 17 

We'll have, just as you say, not many years — 
There can't be many but we want them sweet 
In spots at least — and this one spot can be 
A beauteous one to more than you and me: 
To the stranger walking in the dusty road, 
To the tired driver on his heavy load. 
To the aviator swooping low to take 
His morning flight above this quiet lake." 

John 
"YouVe missed your calling, Kate, the pulpit is 
Your rightful place, with more than one as 

audience. 
Just save your sermons for the unconvinced; 
I want it too — this long-abandoned farm. 
There's more fruit here than Bennie's mother 

thought. 
We'll take two dozen boxes from those trees; 
From each, when we have fed and cared for them — 
Those tall grapefruit, I mean, those biggest ones. 

Suppose we buy it, Kate, and fertilize 

The trees, and harrow it right in; and plant 

Strong re-sets where those sickly ones now 

stand; 
And clean the dead wood out and have it burned. 
We'll hire a man — a colored man — and women 
As they do down here — to hoe the choked fence- 
lines. 



18 RECLAIMED 

The fruit will bring returns in the March pool; 
A tidy sum, perhaps, though not, of course, 
As much as later seasons when we've turned 
The maiden-cane, as humus, back to the roots 
And have spread manure to overcome the blight 
That came from too much lime applied one year, 
(A state-wide error that was made, they say). 
Tve heard all this of evenings at the hotel 
And this tree talk brings back to me afresh 
The knowledge that I once had from my books 
When I was at an Ag. school for a time. 
I thought Fd be a farmer, then. Come, Kate — " 

Kate 

"But what about sand-burs and rattle-snakes 
And scale and our slim purse, white fly and rust 
And fleeting years and pumpkin-bugs and frost 
And avocado pear trees winter-killed.?" 

John 

"I want them too; they make it less secure. 
We men don't like to be too sure of things. 
Not being quite sure in groves, just as in love, 
Gives zest to ownership, my constant Kate. 
Though on the whole, when one is loved — Oh 

hark! 
A mocking bird is singing; do you hear?" 



RECLAIMED 19 

Kate 
"I hear it and \ feel it; that's the dehght. 
Two shadowy gulls are circling near the lake. 
I feel their gray wings fan the soft, sweet air. 
A startled bunny makes a bobbing spot 
Of white, between the rows of orange trees. 
I feel his frightened feet just skim the ground. 
A light wind rustles; it has a soothing sound — 
A sound like water lapping — now it is still — " 

John 

"Stop dreaming, Kate, we must get back to town, 
And buy the place. Fll pay some money down." 



PINE KNOT 

A hundred years perhaps you stood 
Among your fellows, tall and straight 
And clean of trunk; your Hnes pure Greek; 
Short, spreading branches at your top 
Festooned with swaying, gray-green moss. 

A century of growth, and then 
They slashed your bark and rudely bound 
Their ugly pots beneath your wounds 
And bled you cruelly each year. 

That precious life-blood slowly drained 
And emptied into filthy vats 
And changed to money, again they came 
And looked you over greedily. 

They put the axe to your rough feet. 
Then helplessly your body fell 
Upon its needled bed of cones. 
A hundred years of growth despoiled. 

20 



PINE KNOT 21 

Nor would they give you sanctuary 
On that low hill you dignified. 
They tore your roots with dynamite 
Out of the earth where you were born, 
Out of the sand from which you sprang, 
And roughly dragged you to the mill 
And cut you into slabs. A mound 
Of powdered wood now marks the place 
Where "dust thou art to dust returned." 
('Twas sawdust in your case, old Pine.) 



They burned that mutilated hill; 
And now where once you proudly stood, 
You and your peers, straight-planted rows 
Of citrous trees usurp the land. 
Low-limbed they sweep the tawny sand. 



Such a short time for them to grow 
And bloom and bear when one recalls 
How long you stood before you fell. 
Such a few years! And I myself 
Have watched the changing tracts of land. 
The drag; the plow; then sticks with roots; 
Then slim, green whips; then glossy shrubs; 
Then trees with fragrant blossoms white 
And fruit which changed so soon from green 
To orange-red of tangerine. 



22 PINE KNOT 

Your stump, grotesque In shape, is here 
Within this ingle-nook of mine. 
I light it with a single match. 
Its splinters catch the tiny flame. 
Your veins of turpentine now blaze. 
Your blood warms mine, O stately Pine. 
Your body wraps me from the night. 
Your warmth enfolds me. I am your guest. 



AN INNESS LANDSCAPE 



AN INNESS LANDSCAPE 

{November, 1917) 

Within the dreary foreground there 

Is something lying. As I look — 

My thoughts weighed down with cruel war 

And wandering sadly from my book — 

It proves to be but a fallen tree, 

The winter sunlight showing 

Naught else within its glowing 

But weeds and spots of snow 

Upon a few shrubs low. 

And yet, too plainly I can see 
A fallen soldier lying there; 
His shattered form the broken tree; 
The weeds the line of his matted hair; 
The snow the dead face turned to me — 
"George Inness' Winter in Montclair." 
* * * * 

(November, 1918) 

These weeds and spots of snow 

Are suddenly aglow. 

The tree puts forth its buds of spring; 

The gray ground greens, and everything 

Behind my eyelids struggles through 

Its clod of earth and blooms anew. 



25 



THE SONG SHE SINGS 

Each night I smile and dance and sing 

Behind the foot-lights, cudgeling 

My brains to make you laugh. 

You really see me only half: 

My mimicry, my dialect, 

My supple body all bedecked 

With tawdry silk and showy lace. 

The silly make-up on my face. 

Each night you laugh, but hear not half 

The song I really sing. 

For you I dance, my audience. 

For you I sing — to you perchance 

I give an hour*s forgetfulness 

Of anxious nights and fretfulness. 

Each night you laugh but know not half 

The song I really sing. 

Know not that from a mother's soul 

This great world-war has taken toll; 

That I have given my only lad; 

That Death has taken all I had; 

That even such as I can rise 

Exalted to the sacrifice. 



26 



THE SONG SHE SINGS 27 

If you will only look behind 
My masque, a woman's heart you'll find. 
Each night you laugh but know not half 
The song I really sing: 

The sacrifice I gladly make — 

He sleeps that all the world may wake! 



THE MIDNIGHT HOURS 



THE MIDNIGHT HOURS 

Circling slowly, short and tall. 
Three black figures on my wall. 
Black hip-boots, long swishing hair; 
Flapping coats with cufFs aflare; 
Knees raised high, lean bodies bent; 
Peaked hats at angles quaint; 
Cheeks aburst with silent sound; 
Slowly circling round and round; 
Bringing thoughts of Robin Hood, 
Of Dunsinane and Birnam's Wood, 
Of Chaucer's Tales, Boccaccio, 
King Arthur, and vague lines of Poe. 

From their gaping pockets throwing 
Small white rose-leaves, like those growing 
On the sweet briar bushes low 
That grew in Childhood's Long-Ago — 
I dream I wake and find them here, 
Silhouetted sharp and clear. 

Deaf am I to all their droning 
Minor strains and weird intoning. 
Yet I hear them in my dreaming. 
See them, with black hair all streaming. 



31 



32 THE MIDNIGHT HOURS 

See them circling short and tall 
Shadows on my empty wall. 
Low-chanted words a message bringing, 
Swinging, swaying — this their singing: 

"A mortal dwelleth here, we wot, 

Dreaming, dreaming, heeding not 

That forevermore the Hidden Powers 

Have granted to us — the Midnight Hours — 

This quiet room, with its empty wall. 

For our circling shadows, short and tall. 

Tra-la-la-la, tra-lo, tra-lo. 

From midnight till the cock's first crow. 

We're dropping flower-petals round 

You Mortal — you who sleep^so sound, 

Petals from the buds of youth, 

Petals from the blossom truth, 

And heartsease, and forgetfulness. 

And courage for the day's new stress. 

Surcease, surcease from all sorrow, 

Surcease from the dreaded morrow. 

Surcease, surcease from clogging care. 

Thy Spirit House swept clean and bare. 

Unheeding Mortal, all these we bring 

As silently we move and sing: 

Tra-la-la-la, tra-lo, tra-lo. 

From stroke of twelve to the cock's first crow.' 



THE MIDNIGHT HOURS 33 

Half rousing from my fevered sleep, 

I gather to my heart the deep 

Sweet healing of their singing; 

Then watch them glide through the tight-closed 

door 
And hear no sound of singing more. 

But far away, in the dawn's faint glow, 

Is the shadowy sound of a cock's first crow. 



ALOHA ON 

Aloha On— Aloha On 

Queen Liliaoukalani. 

'Midst yellow flowers lying, 

And kahalis of feathers. 

A diamond crown upon your head; 

Your dress, brocaded satin; 

Your hands with jewels covered. 

Your women waving slowly 
Their wands of mourning feathers. 
Your men, in capes of yellow, 
Chanting the deeds of valiance; 
Chanting the kings, and wailing. 

Your catafalque so slowly drawn 
Between the kukua torches, 
While your servitors, about their necks, 
Bear royal household orders. 

Aloha On— Aloha On 

Queen Liliaoukalani. 

The kukua torches light your way, 

And Mother Earth will take you. 



34 



YOUR ROSES 

Just as all things that you wear, 

Every tone and shade and line, 

Seems to blend with eyes and hair 

To make your image rare and fine; 

So your flowers, and their green leaves dull, 

And the gray vase, and the petals curled — 

All velvet-pink and beautiful — 

Make rare and fine my sick-room world. 



35 



HE AND I 



HE AND I 

My eyes meet eyes 
Across the space 
That 'tween them lies 
Of linen white 
And silver bright. 

The table chat 
Is vague and dim; 
I only know 
Tm loving him — 
That he's the goal 
Of my fond soul; 
That all I am, 
All I can be 
Is his alone 
If he loves me. 
Oh coming years! 
Oh happy tears! 

If only I 

Were near enough 
To touch his hand! 
My hand is rough; 
Like velvet is 
That hand of his. 

39 



40 HE AND I 

His smile meets mine 
And makes a glow 
I can't define. 
I love him so! 
(The others see 
He's much to me 
Though no words pass 
Between us two.) 

Alack! alas! 
He says but "Go-o-o" 
My darling one! 
My baby son! 



JANIE 

Visiting at grandma's home; 

Glad to go or glad to come; 

Mischievous and dear and sweet, 

With restless little hands and feet. 

Listening to all that's said; 

Small footmarks on my clean white spread; 

Taking off her English sox, 

Upsetting my full button box — 

"My muvver lets me do it." 

"I'm just as clean as I can be, 
So don't you get those towels for me. 
You won't give me a bath, I hope, — 
And please don't wash my face with soap! 
My muvver never does it." 

Carrying all her things to bed: 

A teddy bear, a dolly's head, 

A big conch-shell, two limp rose buds, 

And other precious baby duds — 

"My muvver lets me do it." 

"Goodnight, sleep tight, not one more peep, 
Shut up your eyes and go to sleep. 



41 



42 JANIE 

And grandmother'!! turn out the light — 
For a sleepy girl it's far too bright." 

"But I don't want you to shut the door; 

Just open it a tiny morel 

My muvver all'as does it! 

I want another Iciss and hug; 

I want a drink from that white mug; 

I want my pillow th' other way, 

And O grandmother, won't you stay 

Where I can see you fru the door? 

I've never slept in here before. 

My muvver all'as does it." 

At last the brown eyes are closed tight. 
At last I can shut out the light, 
And that dear kiddie's darling head 
Is snuggled halfway down the bed. 
Her feet are out, her arms are bare, 
The useless pillow's fallen where 
She'll never find it if she wakes. 
The whole sweet picture surely makes 
Me think how, many years ago. 
Another brown-eyed one I know — 
Her mother — always slept just so. 



YOUTH AND AGE 



YOUTH AND AGE 

Youth cries for things. 

Impetuous Youth! She cannot know 
How weary grow the feet, and slow 

The imaginings. 

Youth sees a flower 

And straightway wants a garden, quite 
Her own, with hedges bright — 

And wealth, and power. 

Youth sees a home — 

A nestling home among the trees 

With grape-vines, roses, birds and bees — 

This too must come. 

Where garden ends 

Youth covets 'neath those drooping trees 
Gay coats and gowns and charming teas 

For many friends. 

But Age craves rest. 

She longs for neither wealth nor power; 

She only wants her quiet hour 
With those loved best. 



45 



THEY 

True — he had not escaped all ills — 

Though flair of youth had visioned high,— 

Or kept his feet upon the hills, 
Or always glimpsed the azure sky. 

But through the mists and pouring rains 

He sometimes walked on mounting plains. 

And she — her castles of ideals 

Had fallen, either stone by stone, 

Or had been wrecked by storms and peals 
Of thunder. They were prone 

But vine and blade had covered o'er 

The ruins, and she built no more. 

Small chance fulfillments here and there 

Amidst the unattained goals, 
Like low brave pennants, straight and fair, 

Caught the west sun — renewed their souls. 
They trekked along without complaint — 
This pseudo-sinner, pseudo-saint. 



46 



■■f^^^:^;'::^:\s 









'■■'■^h 






LIBRARY 




